Roger Clemens lets out a heavy sigh and struggles to keep the tears from glistening on his face . He sits in his spacious home in a hurricane-ravaged area of Texas, watching the final game at Yankee Stadium, hoping his years of pin-striped service are recognized. But what of the other sinners? Knoblauch? Pettitte? Giambi? All mentioned. All cheered. Not Roger, though. He's a true pariah, he thought. The wife and mother-in-law squeeze the sad man's large hand, as he anxiously watches, waiting for something — anything — from the Yankee organization that has seemingly forgotten him. They're saving me until last, he thinks. Maybe they'll surprise me with a phone call and let me say goodbye to the Bronx one last time? He pictured it: his voice over the loudspeaker shaking the old concrete stadium, the noisy, appreciative crowd drowning out most of his speech. "We still love you Rah-ger!", a little girl shouts from the upper deck. He waits. No phone call. Where is Suzyn Waldman now? Suzyn? Are you there?

No.

Rocket's Sad Stare [NY POST]

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